


Want Something Done Right

by quamquam20



Series: Want Something Done Right [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Blow Jobs, Creampie, Crying, Cuckolding, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Femsub, Frottage, Humiliation, Jealousy, Light Bondage, Light Sadism, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Naked Female Clothed Male, Not Canon Compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Power Play, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Seduction, Size Kink, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Threats of Violence, Two Endings, Two Shot, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quamquam20/pseuds/quamquam20
Summary: One by one, Kylo sends the Knights of Ren to kill Rey. Things don't go as planned.“The scavenger is strong.”“Stronger than you, anyway,” Kylo spits back. He mentally supplies the obvious, needling response himself: that apparently she is also stronger than him, and he can feel a battering ram of anger from Cardo with some kind of tainted smugness underneath. Which Kylo doesn't have the time or inclination to parse out. “Is anybodynotintimidated by a twenty-year-old girl who spent most of her life starving on a backwater desert planet?”The rest of the knights raise their hands.
Relationships: Knights of Ren/Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Want Something Done Right [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876801
Comments: 187
Kudos: 708
Collections: Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	1. Sent

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this sweet prompt](https://twitter.com/reylo_prompts/status/1236123907205337094) from @reylo_prompts on Twitter:
> 
> "Kylo sends a KoR to watch Rey's back in secret. But Rey being Rey gets along with the undercover knight who saved her a few times and Kylo gets jealous. So he sends another one. Rinse and repeat!"
> 
> And then, because I am an unrepentant garbage can with no self-control, I proceeded to write the horny evil twin of its fill.

The Knights of Ren are dismissed, and they turn sharply to leave the cramped debriefing room.

Kuruk is last in line, almost to the door when Kylo speaks.

“Not you.”

The knight halts and spins back to face the Supreme Leader, side panels of his helmet focusing his gaze. The door slides shut and they're alone—the room silent except for the squeaking treads of a cleaning droid that's whisking up clumps of dirt left behind by the knights' boots.

The Council has been breathing down Kylo's neck, fed up with the way he's flouting his responsibilities to hunt down the scavenger himself. Complaints about security expenses, stalled projects waiting on his approval, and something about command presenting a united front. They seem unconvinced that she's a particularly high-value target or worth his time. And he has enough pride to wonder if maybe they're right.

The astrographic map of suspected Resistance base locations hangs in the air between them. They're narrowing down the list of potential sites, but their enemy is ephemeral, blending in well. She'll be easier to pick off alone.

“I want—” Kylo stops, a flicker of something before he sets his jaw and his eyes glint coldly. “I want you to kill her.”

A clean shot she'll never see coming. Painless.

Kuruk nods once and reroutes his exit to head for an empty TIE fighter.

* * *

I.

A twig snaps in the distance, near the top of a heavily forested ridge. The shadowy fog of somebody Force sensitive trails down the slope.

Rey, seated and still, keeps her eyes closed. It's not nearly strong enough to be Kylo. But they're getting closer. Clearing her mind, she leaves no fear for them to sniff out—only the peaceful quiet of private, late-morning meditation. She uses it like a shield, a screen that she can work behind.

The Knights of Ren.

No—just one. She's alone, long minutes from the closest help, her friends off-planet on various missions. Her lightsaber is at her side, but he's staying out of range, prowling carefully.

A sudden, ridiculous idea: if he's going to wait until he thinks she's defenseless, she might as well lure him in. Maybe the Knights of Ren are less formidable when they're not hunting in a pack. Maybe they're easily tempted, more self-serving than loyal when they're isolated.

It has to seem natural. Rey stretches her neck from side to side, shrugging to work the tension from her shoulders. She blinks her eyes open and glances around the sun-warmed clearing, careful to avoid looking where she knows he's hiding in the dense undergrowth.

Letting a guilty little flutter get through the shield, Rey licks her lips. If she really were to do this—get off in the forest when she should be training—she'd be quick and efficient. As it is, she puts on a bit of a show. Not enough to make him suspicious, but enough to stop him. It's shameless and precarious, and it needs to work. She starts by rubbing herself, over her pants. Could be the adrenaline now or just knowing that she's being watched, but it genuinely feels good.

When she slips her hand down the front of her pants, the sound she makes isn't completely forced.

He's hesitating. From him, a blend of surprise, inner conflict, and arousal. Curiosity.

She's a bit wet; nothing out of the ordinary. But she acts like it, coming up onto her knees, spreading them wide. She jiggles her hand over her clit, the movement looking more effective, more vigorous, than it really is.

He makes his decision: the slow rustling of thick-woven cloth in the quiet woods as he gives in. It's rhythmic and soon he's trying to match her pace, like he's doing it to her.

She makes her body shake, gets loud like she's close. The performance blends a bit into gratification—it _has_ been a while—but she's focused.

When his breathing catches with every stroke, paralleling the crescendo, it's her chance.

Rey leaps up and grabs her blaster with a barely damp hand, and slings her pack over her shoulder. Before he can react, she's sprinting down the path to the Resistance base, leaving him scrambling to pull up his pants.

* * *

“What happened?”

Kuruk is back even sooner than expected, joining them in the private room lit only by glowing holomaps. Kylo swallows around a stomach-churning dread. He hasn't felt anything, but with the bond shut off on her end, he may not.

“She escaped,” Kuruk mumbles as he drags over a chair and flops down into it, his limbs splayed. “I dropped the terrain mapper, too.”

So she's alive. Kylo's disappointed now, and the secret emotional shift is enough to give him whiplash. This is why he has to send other people.

“But you saw her.”

A nod. Kuruk reaches out to point on the map in front of them, follows a narrow valley between two ridges. He stops where it intersects with a marked trail and taps.

“Here.”

Something simmers, a lurch of frustration before the knight catches it and pushes it down.

Understandable. Rey has probably gotten stronger. Kuruk has always been more cautious, keeping his distance. Useful for reconnaissance. With Hux slithering around, Kylo doesn't want to spare more than one knight at a time. Really, one is plenty; she barely even warrants that.

“Good.” Kylo turns to Cardo. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

II.

The cantina is packed, filled with the din of different languages and clinking glasses.

Resistance spies are scattered throughout the crowd, blending in with varying degrees of skill. One flirts with the bartender, two are in on a game of Sabacc. More filter through the mass of people, mingling. Rey keeps guard in the back, where the metal door of the storeroom swings ceaselessly with another jingling crate of bottles being carried out or a spent keg carted away. This part always makes her nervous. She'd rather be out in the open.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. A dark corner table, a measured movement. A black helmet and broad shoulders. For a moment, there's a complicated spinning feeling in her—half apprehension, half relief. But it's not him.

Another knight.

This time, she's angry. She doesn't hide it.

Rey storms over, weaving through the crowd, and stands beside the table. He tries to move, hand on a blaster pistol hidden under his long, grooved coat.

A flick of her wrist, kept low, and he's immobile. Rey slides into the bench across from him while he struggles, his chest and biceps bulging as he strains against the hold.

If the interaction appears strange, nobody notices. Rey rests her hand casually on her neck, just below her ear: a signal to the others that she's gathering sensitive information and needs privacy.

In the poorly lit alcove, under all of his layers, the knight is powerfully built. The scents of sweat and blood—days of fighting—drift over to her, even from the other side of the table. Physically, he's intimidating. As a Force user, he's hopelessly crude.

Rey concentrates, bringing his hands to lie flat on the table. It's a natural movement that looks like his decision. Next to him, closer to the wall, a huge gun rests on the bench, too cumbersome for close quarters.

“He sent you to kill me.” Her voice is level.

He grunts in response.

“In a cantina.” The cruel irony of it, knowing what he does about her parents, is a well-aimed strike. “Or was that your idea?”

No reply, but the struggling stops. Rey releases the hold on everything but his hands, keeping them pinned.

Well, if Kylo doesn't care how she dies, he certainly won't care how she gets out of it.

Rey slides her foot over, brushing the flexible, broken-in suede of her shoe against the knight's heavy boot. No reaction.

She eases her toe up along the edge of his greave-covered shin. Even under the armor, his calf muscles are flexing as he shifts in his seat, but he doesn't move away, a cloud of eagerness around him. He wants what she's doing.

At his knee, the angle changes, and she grazes the inside of his thigh, the loose fabric of his pants moving beneath light pressure. There's only covered breathing in response, but the hitch is promising. When Rey reaches his groin, she gives a tentative push with the bottom of her boot.

A bitten-down groan, and his gloved fingers curl on the tabletop, hands still trapped at the wrists.

If they try to kill her in public, it's a fair place to make them come. Despite not being able to distinguish much through her shoe's sole as she presses, she can at least follow the long ridge of his shaft. He's pushing up into her foot with obvious thrusts. It's hurried, obscene, and it's either been a long time since he was touched or he's getting off hard on the fact that her foot is on him in a crowded bar.

Under his unadorned and utilitarian helmet, through the visor, his eyes are a shining flash when the distant light catches them. She stares back, biting her lip in concentration, her leg unaccustomed to the way she's moving it. Modulated gasping and tensing and he's coming under the table.

When Rey returns to her post across the room, she keeps holding his wrists to the table, letting the spreading messiness under his clothes get cold. She wonders if they tell Kylo what happens, or if he cares.

The Resistance spies leave the cantina gradually, trickling out alone or in groups, their information-gathering complete. Rey leaves last, releasing the knight's hands as the door closes behind her.

* * *

“You... couldn't get to your weapons?”

“Correct.”

“Why not?”

“She restrained me.”

“Restrained?” The word hardly seems real and Kylo's voice is arctic. “She's half your size.”

“The scavenger is strong.”

“Stronger than you, anyway,” Kylo spits back. He mentally supplies the obvious, needling response himself: that apparently she is also stronger than him, and he can feel a battering ram of anger from Cardo with some kind of tainted smugness underneath. Which Kylo doesn't have the time or inclination to parse out.

“Is anybody _not_ intimidated by a twenty-year-old girl who spent most of her life starving on a backwater desert planet?”

The rest of the knights raise their hands.

* * *

III.

Rey is walking the full perimeter of the new base to check the security droids. One droid, out near an unmapped cave system, has been malfunctioning, and Rey makes her way over to it.

It's powered down, resting on the rock outcropping by the entrance of a cave, but it looks intact. Rey climbs up easily. The footholds are sturdy, rock weathered by the passing millennia. Lush plants sprout from pockets of rich, loamy soil. At the top, she straightens and brushes the loose gravel from her hands.

A torrent of fear, and a curved blade swings at her throat. She catches and halts the scythe with the Force, inches from her neck while she reaches for her lightsaber.

The knight kicks her leg, more of a nudge than an attempt to knock her down. Rey stops. Something else is going on. He's looking her up and down, considering, and she can feel it: he's not conflicted. Just trying to figure out how to make it happen. He jerks his head over to the cave, then withdraws his weapon to follow her. Gives a slight shove to hurry her along.

Barely inside the entrance, it's cool and dark, even in the scorching afternoon. As soon as he's out of the line of sight of anybody who could have followed him, he's gripping himself, reaching under the reptilian-scaled leather of his armor. The scythe is tossed aside, and it lands with a ringing clatter on the exposed stone floor.

Word is getting out. She hides a smile. This is clearly not a Jedi-approved tactic, but she _is_ avoiding a deadly confrontation and that has to count for something. The knights are also intriguing, if she's honest with herself. Kylo gives them orders, never considering that their impulsivity and selfishness might take a different form, that he has kept their leashes too short for too long. A little denial sharpens the senses but too much of it makes them seditious and cunning. And she's there to take advantage of the oversight.

“He said you were starving on Jakku.” Beneath his grid-scored helmet, he's breathing hard already. Must like them to be as needy as he is. It's unsurprising that Kylo is revealing intimate details he tore from her head months ago, and she tries not to let it get to her.

“And what do you think of that?” Rey asks, sure of the answer. She drops to her knees: he'll remember the image. Maybe Kylo can rip that out of his knight's head later.

“I think I like it.” He's pushing aside his textured armor and tugging down his pants.

His cock is thick, and he leans back like he's proud of it. The surrounding hair is trimmed. Rey lets her mouth fill with saliva because she definitely wants to make a mess that might linger. She takes him eagerly, jaw opening wide, and the wetness on her tongue quickly rinses off the musk of his sweat. He's not calm about it, and he's making noises like somebody eating their favorite food for the first time in years. At the back of her head, he burrows his fingers into the three buns that are starting to fall out.

She looks up at him, and she would give anything for the Force to connect her with Kylo right now, kneeling to take the cock of the knight he sent. Maybe he would only see her—touching someone, head moving with an unmistakable rhythm. The knight pushes deep into her throat and she gags. He loves it, strokes her cheek with his thumb.

“I can't believe he wants to kill you,” he says, with a kind of lust-addled, incredulous confusion that makes Rey want to laugh. “I bet you never sucked his cock.”

Rey shakes her head around him, drawing out a groan while ripples of subversion seep from him, and she knows that what she's doing is incredibly complicated and fucked up. And that just turns her on more.

“He's an idiot,” he says, voice getting rough. “Look at you. Fuck.” Driven by an impulse, he pulls out of her mouth. Drags her to her feet to shuffle her over to the wall. His glove is coming off, and he gets her pants down. No time to wonder what will happen, the rush of it feverish. “I want to feel you.” His fingers are calloused, and he rubs them against her, gentle over her clit like he's mapping her, and she didn't expect this at all. Rey tilts into his touch.

“That's a perfect pussy." He's playing with her lips, a teasing pulling and parting. Then dipping a finger in, just enough to wet it, and he's sliding it over her until she's drenched with herself. "He's _such_ an idiot. You want me to tell him what you feel like?”

She shakes her head but her whole body is flush with the heat of it. Fingers in her now, his palm working the outside, winding her up already with a practiced, expert dexterity. Her back pushes against the smooth wall of the cave, the solidness keeping her upright even while she trembles.

“Are you sure? I can tell him how fucking tight you are and he'll be beating off in his room thinking about it for weeks.”

“I'm going to—” She's losing it, her hips lurching while she grits her teeth. If he ever found out...

“Come for me, just like that. So I can let him know how good you sound.”

She's gone, just a caught sob as the orgasm detonates through her. The cave echoes with the wet noises his fingers make in her, and he's holding her to him as she clings. And it's the strangest thing she's ever done, but she starts blinking back tears halfway through, the flood of the release pulling emotions out with it. When it's over, she's laughing about the crying. Embarrassed but perfectly drained.

“That's it,” he's saying, his arm still around her. He's stroking his cock with the hand that was on her. “That's good.” She shudders with an aftershock. “Can I fuck you?”

Maybe it's the quaking orgasm he just gave her or the fact that he asked. Or just the secret, too-sudden intimacy, but she nods and is turning around and putting her hands on the wall and bending over for someone who, fifteen minutes ago, had a blade to her throat. Her lightsaber is still clipped to her belt, swinging with her movements.

It starts with caresses, touching her thighs and ass and back, before he spreads her to get a good look at everything between her legs. The reverence, the impression of being studied by an approving connoisseur, is intoxicating.

“If you were mine, I'd never take my mouth off of you,” he says, tracing with his fingers again. The image of him removing his helmet behind her to bathe her with his tongue makes Rey buck into his hand. It's what she wants, knows he'd be incredible at it—his mouth racking her body with an endless chain of cresting pleasure until she's a puddle on the ground. Her response makes him groan before he apologizes. “Listen, I'll be useless if I can still taste you after I leave.” It's tinged with a wistful regret that makes her need him—she'll take it any way now.

Like he can hear her, he's swiping his cock across her slick entrance. “It's going to be bad enough already.” She's ready to start pleading for him to get in her.

“Maybe I won't tell him what you're like. Maybe I'll just tell the others.” He pushes in a little with testing, shallow strokes—just the head of his cock. Even with that, Rey moans at the fullness. “And he'll just keep sending us because he's an idiot and you can get fucked as much as you want.” He's deeper now, fitted tight. “Want that? You want everyone to fuck you except him?”

And with a frenzied, spiteful need, it's true.

“Yes.”

“You want the Supreme Leader to keep sending us for you to use?” Full, plunging thrusts. “Because I want to keep fucking you, scavenger.”

She clenches around him at the name.

“Ah, you like that? That's what he calls you.” She's gasping and he's circling his fingers over her clit again. “He said you're twenty, and half our size. It's like he _wants_ us to fuck you.” A groan when her body catches. “But know what? I think he wants to do it but doesn't know how.”

Her legs are shaking. She pushes back to meet his thrusts. It feels incredible—what he's doing and what he's saying.

“Doesn't know what to do with a wet hole. Do you want to fuck him?”

She's going to come. She shakes her head.

“Yes, you do. Your pussy is so fucking tight right now, I can barely get my cock out.” Rey whimpers. His voice is soft, touch unwavering on her clit. “I won't tell anybody about that. Just pretend we're him. Ready?”

She's nodding and closing her eyes, and he grabs her by the shoulder so she stands, arching into him, and he's making her come again, grinding her onto his cock, a rolling that lets her milking spasms grip him.

“I'm coming in you, scavenger,” he tells her, teeth gritted beneath his helmet. He's loud when he lets go, all grunts and sighs.

He slides out of her and gives her ass a little slap while he catches his breath.

“It's a shame I couldn't locate you,” he says.

Rey decides that she kind of likes this one.

* * *

Vicrul starts to make excuses.

Kylo holds up a hand to stop him.

“Unless she's dead, I don't want to hear it.” She's a Force user, yes. But so inexperienced that this shouldn't be possible.

He could send them out in groups, of course, but now it's the principle of the thing. The Knights of Ren are his personal guard. He has been their master for years, and he knows how they fight. Any one of them should be able to take out an unsuspecting person, no matter who it is. And they don't have the disadvantage of his own concealed attachment to the scavenger. His _previous_ attachment.

And a ruthless part of him thinks that if none of his knights can do it, then they deserve to be killed by her.

Kylo decides to repair his shattered mask so he looks like their master again.

* * *

IV.

They're exploring an abandoned manufacturing complex on a nearby planet. Empire-era, Rey guesses, based on the rusted speeder bike piled in a dusty corner of the main hangar. The complex is enormous, fading to gray in a torrential rain that never seems to slow, and they divide it up into sections before splitting off. Poe wanted the hangars and workshops. So that's where he is, and Rey is bitter about it. Finn gets the smelting and production floors; Rose is in the central command and utility areas. Rey has the section to the west: the sprawling barracks used by the workers and troopers once stationed there. It has five interconnected wings, excluding two medcenters and the main mess hall.

Through the gloomy space, she searches for anything useful: supplies, equipment. Maps, money. They're scavenging, really—taking what they need like it's theirs. If they find it, they can keep it, and she understands those rules. Looking for a second door to the kitchen, Rey rounds the corner from the mess hall. The first entrance is sealed shut, but there's a promising gap in the wall up ahead and she moves toward it.

Behind her, the sickening ring of metal sliding against metal. An unskilled push of panic that's effortless to block. Rey spins around. The knight has a weapon—a cleaver, really—that's so big, it's almost funny. He lifts it but, not bracing himself for the downswing, he's hardly trying.

Unfazed, Rey doesn't bother drawing her lightsaber. Nods to his broad, flat blade instead.

“Compensating?”

“You tell me.” A deep, throaty voice, even before it's distorted by the vocoder of his helmet.

It's part challenge and part invitation. He rests the perforated spine of the vibrocleaver over his shoulder, and at his side, a recently honed blade stays sheathed.

He doesn't react much when she gets close and reaches between his legs, outlining and rubbing. He just hardens in her hand and breathes as she gives an exploratory squeeze. Average. Rey shrugs, but keeps working him through the black fabric. The edge of his wide hood folds as he looks down at where she's palming him, and he lets her bold groping sway his body. The rain is a distant rush against the metal roof above them.

It isn't even about getting away from them now; she knows she could take them on herself, if it's just one-on-one. But she loves how they find her, and how disinclined they are to kill somebody who likes making them come. Although if their real task is to protect Kylo Ren from her, they're distracting enough that it's actually working. Maybe it's just the routine of war getting to her, the hiding and training and worrying, but something to break up the monotony and turn her on is a welcome change.

“I need to get a better look,” she tells him. With that, Rey turns to walk to the door she spotted, knowing he'll follow. Might as well explore, too. She keeps a buffer between them while her back is turned—a protective wall that catches his tentative touch and sends a little zap. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him quickly withdraw his hand and give it a shake.

“Don't do that again,” she warns.

“Just have to feel you.” An unexpected longing in it.

The complex has been unpowered for years, and the kitchen door is only partially open. Rey crawls in easily, but the knight has to maneuver and angle himself to get through, after leaving the oversized cleaver leaning against the wall of the corridor. And that's fine with her.

Once he's clear of the doorway, he's walking over to her, boots thumping on the floor and he's so impatient. Restless with anticipation. Rey works on her belt, then drops the pack at her feet. In case she needs quick access to it, she tosses her comlink—used to check in with each other—onto a counter nearby. He has a belt, too, strapped with the shorter blade. After unbuckling it, he's pushing the flaps of his outer armor out of the way to yank up the thick tunic. Then his cock is out and Rey tilts her head appraisingly at it. It curves upward, obvious veins trailing up the side. Mouthwateringly rigid.

Chairs are scattered around the kitchen, covered in grit and years of dirt. She points to one. He sits, shuffling to manage the layers of black leather. Only bothering to get one leg fully out of her pants, she lets the rest of the fabric hanging around her ankle. She replaces the shoe, and the dirty floor crunches under her soles as she shifts her weight. Cool air breezes over her damp skin. The speed of this is arousing—that two minutes ago, she was exploring by herself, and now, after five clipped sentences, she's about to have a new cock inside of her. A new, faceless stranger who wants this more than he wants to follow orders.

He's grabby—gloved hands on her chest while she straddles him, dragging over her breasts and cupping while she lines herself up. He smells like a campfire when she reaches down to grip him, before she sweeps the tip of his cock over her, lightly at first, then more pressure until she's pushing him in, just a bit.

Beneath the mask and the hood, his lips are sealed together to stop an urgent moan.

She digs her fingers into his muscle-rounded shoulder and leans in before she sinks more. It brings the leather and woodsmoke smell of him closer.

“You can be loud,” Rey tells him. “We're alone.”

With a slow pressing, she works down onto him; he sucks in a sharp breath. When he groans, it's mostly swearing that he drags out long. The frayed satisfaction in it, and knowing that she's the source, gives Rey goosebumps as she rocks her hips; the curve in his cock feels like it was made for her to get off with.

The comlink crackles to life.

“Check. Doing fine.” It's Poe.

“Going to need way more time,” says Rose. “Lots here.”

Someone is in her and Rey doesn't want to hear them right now, but she can't have them looking for her, so she reaches over to respond. He likes this—he's gripping her waist and bouncing her on his cock while she fumbles with the buttons on the device.

The knight is looking up at her, watching her bring the comlink close to her mouth to block out ambient sounds of the creaking chair and the rhythmic shifting of clothes.

“Check,” Rey says, keeping her voice steady. He grinds into her, trying to make her come.

“Need more time, Rey?” It's Finn.

“Yes.” She releases the button and leans down again.

“Fuck you,” she says to him. He's locking her in, bumping against her, and his laugh is breathless. She's getting close and if he gives her an orgasm while her friends are talking, she's going to kill him. Rey tries to reposition herself so he's not hitting that spot in her that's making her toes curl in her boots, but his arms are wrapping around her, holding her down so he can stay buried in her while she strains.

“Want help, Rey?” Poe offers.

“No thanks.” She chokes it out and mutes the comlink before dropping it back onto the counter. She bucks her hips, hoping it hurts him, but he just groans encouragingly.

“Wanna know _my_ name?” he asks, his voice a taunting rumble, and she realizes too late that he probably just heard hers for the first time.

“No. I want to come.”

She uses her legs, undulating in his lap; gets more friction where she needs it. Through her layers of clothes, he pinches her nipples and doesn't let go. Rey hisses and jerks at the pain, but she's already peaking, and it just makes the orgasm stronger. Letting her head fall back, she rides out the surge, as rough as she wants to be, his armor biting into her skin.

When she's done, Rey straightens her legs to ease his cock out and she dismounts, his hands falling away. A bit wobbly on her feet, she pops off her shoe to slip her foot back through the leg of her pants. To tug the cloth back up over her sweat-tacky skin, she has to squirm.

“You're kidding.” The knight's words are leaden with disbelief.

Rey glances over at him. He's so let down, slumped and defeated, all dirt-smeared leather, cock hard and red and glistening, balls tight and full—the only visible skin.

“I got you off.” He says it like they made a bargain and shook on it.

“I got myself off with you,” Rey corrects.

His cock twitches at that. Loves being used.

“Please.” He's pleading. “It's been so long.” Even after an orgasm, Rey likes this, and wonders idly if the knights ever find people to share at the same time. If they ever use each other.

“That's not my problem,” she says while digging through her pack on the ground, acting disinterested. “I already came.”

“How was it?” A new bead of precome gathers on the tip of his cock.

“The orgasm or you?” She unmutes the comlink so she can hear any transmissions and drops it into the pack. She wonders why he won't just touch himself or walk over to her. Must like the build up too much to end it.

“Fuck.” His cock pulses in the air and he might even be able to make himself come like that. “Both. Please keep talking to me.”

Rey heaves a long-suffering sigh. “The orgasm was okay. Not the best I've ever had.”

And he _loves_ that. He stamps his foot and tips the chair back, groaning. Maybe it's the blunt comparison or her apparent boredom, or just the sound of her voice, but it's stoking something that consumes him, making him louder than when she was fucking him. Every bit of his attention is trained on her—her words, her movements—and it's a heady kind of power.

Rey clips her belt back on, then tightens the holster's buckle and fastens it by pushing the metal prong into the worn, punctured strap, dented from daily wear. A habitual thing that's given importance by being watched.

“Did you like it?” He's openly begging now. “My cock.”

Rey approaches him again with slow steps. Points to his lap.

“This thing?”

His noises sound like panting now. “Yeah.”

She reaches out, still more than an arm's length away from him. Uses the Force to wrap a harsh, sliding tension around his cock. Swearing loudly, he immediately drives himself up into the invisible grasp.

“I've had bigger,” Rey says honestly. He's on the brink. “But the shape of it...”

She trails off as he comes. The fierceness of it is startling—he's curling in on himself, head down, stifled gasps as he kicks hard with his legs. It lands on his chest, his stomach. His helmet. Rey hopes he misses some when he cleans up afterwards.

Even after his body relaxes, she keeps going a little. He's sensitive, and he jolts at the touch, giving a gratifying hiss and a shudder at the torment.

“That's for the comlink,” she tells him before securing her pack across her chest, the scavenged contents settling against her back.

“Thank you,” he rumbles hoarsely as she crawls back out through the kitchen door.

And it's so sincere.

* * *

“I was disarmed.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” Kylo stops in his tracks and rounds on Trudgen in the brightly lit hallway. Beneath his cape, he clenches his hand into a knot of irritation. The other knights surround him in the narrow space and there's no room for losing control. Of them or of himself. “How close did you get to her?”

Nothing.

“Did you touch her?”

Two of the knights share a quick glance. Kylo reins himself in, forces his shoulders to relax. He can't slow his breathing, though. That's still coming hard and fast. The vocoder doesn't pick up all of it.

“I took what was offered.”

No guilt. No shame.

The bottom drops out of his stomach. He's grateful for the mask now, because it hides how his mouth is hanging open like he's been punched, a fist slamming up under his ribs.

That's their code: take what's there.

_Offered._

He shouldn't have asked.

Kylo allows himself a quick, silent exhale at the pain. Then he twists it into disappointment. For now. The rage will come soon enough.

“I see that the task was above you.” His voice is ice, and he has the most knee-buckling desire to choke somebody. “Ushar, are you capable of following orders?”

Ushar pounds the handle of his mace against the mud-smeared floor. It's a weapon that has cut short countless lives. Brutal and merciless.

“Kill her.”

* * *

Alone in his quarters, Kylo is past the breaking-things stage. But just barely.

Horribly, he wants to know more. How exactly did he touch her? Where? What was offered? Did she touch him back? Did the others touch her?

Are they _fucking_ her?

No, she would never. She's too standoffish for that. Scavengers just do what they have to, to scrape by. Fucking is too self-indulgent for someone so buttoned up. But then he remembers how she'd circled him in the snow, hunched and full of bloodlust, or how she'd screamed in the throne room when they fought together. If she's spreading herself for them and they're going inside her...

Kylo slams against the closed-off Force bond, but there's no response. There never is.

And it turns out that he is has moved on to the wall-slashing stage.


	2. Delivered

* * *

V.

It's a new path for her training runs—skirting hills, rounding a lake, and scrambling through the wreckage of a star destroyer before looping back.

Rey is running through the remains of the destroyer's bridge tower, floor slanted and uneven, when something blunt swings out and collides with her abdomen. She's thrown back by the shock wave, the violence of it utterly disproportionate to what happened. Lightsaber in hand before she struggles to her feet, and Rey's trying to suck in air as she whirls around to look for her attacker. A metallic shine glints in her periphery—she throws her hand out to slow it. The knight breaks free from her hold with a growling twist and is immediately swinging the long-handled war club again. Rey dodges it.

He's ferocious and focused, and it reminds her of Kylo. He's not pulling any punches. She swipes at him with her lightsaber, stepping into a lunge to compensate for her shorter reach. With a vibromachete, he blocks it easily, and brings the club around with his other arm. Rey jumps back out of range and it whirs through the air—precisely where she was a heartbeat ago—with a terrible hum.

He's trying to hurt her. And _that_ makes her furious. A huge chunk of metal hangs far to her right, teetering precariously, held up by cables. Clenching her fist, she reaches out and uses the Force to rip the block from the ceiling. It floats, weightless, for a fraction of a second before she hurtles it at the knight. He disappears behind a ruined blast door, and the mass of durasteel ricochets off of it, sending up a spray of sparks.

Rey shouts in frustration. She's already drained from the training run, but the adrenaline helps. He's projecting waves of fear to lower her guard, and it's probably effective against his opponents. Usually.

Mentally, she pokes around a little. Beneath a rudimentary shield, he's turned on by all of this, a rushing desire and the thrill of cruelty.

“I can feel that,” he tells her, and his gravelly voice is full of warning.

“Good.”

He steps out from behind the door, the movement smooth and controlled.

“Do you want to play?” It's a sick shivering, polluted by a malevolent keenness.

“I thought that's what we were doing,” Rey says nonchalantly. She knows what he means, though. And keyed up from the fight, she's interested. Trying to kill her was flirting, a pick-up line that will leave bruises.

He's heading over to a huge, overturned cabinet and the hinges creak when he opens it. It's foreplay: he shows her his weapons one by one as he puts them inside, like a strange ritual. The war club. The vibromachete. Thermal detonators. He unbuckles the vambraces from his forearms and drops them in. The leather straps crossing his torso, where he kept the vibromachete sheathed, go in too. It's so entrancing to watch him disarm that Rey wonders if it's a trick. He can still hurt her—just like she can hurt him—but he fought so hard before, it’s odd that he wouldn't have another blade stashed somewhere.

Slowly, hands raised over his head, he walks over to her. Instead of the coppery scent of blood that she prepared for, there's a jarring, sweet-spiced hint. She pats him down, and spends extra time on his boots, running her finger around the top edges to feel for concealed handles. His helmet has filters and breathing tubes, and she prods them carefully to check for anything inside without blocking them.

“I took the helmet,” he says, undoubtedly abbreviating a disgusting story. “They're just for show.”

The inspection gets more invasive, with Rey reaching under his light armor. At his groin, she feels for hidden weapons but finds nothing next to his growing erection. Finished, she steps back.

“Your turn,” he says.

It would absolutely be a trap for anybody else—the tempting promise of mercy from somebody so cold-blooded. Rey only wants to remember what it was like to be helpless and humbled, to be a nobody again. Just for a while. But, really, she's poisoned bait now and he'll know it before this is over.

So she makes her way to the opposite side of the room and finds a notch in an exposed beam to hang her belt from. After sliding the strap off, she lifts it to show him the holstered blaster and the attached lightsaber hilt before hooking the entire thing into the beam's notch.

“That's it?”

Rey ignores him and returns with her hands behind her head for the pat-down. Which, as expected, is very different than the one she gave him.

He kicks her feet apart until her legs are spread wide. Like she's in a museum—like Rey is a statue he's appraising—he wanders around her a few times. It's not admiring: he's sizing her up. It doesn't take long before he makes up his mind about how to torment and coax.

He reaches his entire arm far between her clothed legs, and drags a single finger with painstaking slowness from her lower back, over her ass, trying to wedge in, and between her lips, brushing her clit. Across her stomach, all the way to her bellybutton. Rey tries not to react, but she's never been touched like that before and it makes her fidget with corrupted desire. Noticing, he outlines around where he hit her with the head of his club. She's not seriously injured, but he likes that he's hurt her already and he finds the edges of where her abdomen is sore by prodding clinically and listening to her inhale catch.

Then he gets weirder. Rubs his thumb behind her ear and wraps his palm around the back of her neck, cradling. Intended to scare her, he wants to make her imagine him ending it with a snap. It's like a massage until she realizes that he's taking his cock out and rubbing it on her leg.

“I'm going to kill you while you come,” he tells her.

Rey gives him a sidelong glance.

“You're overestimating your abilities. On both counts.”

He likes that; he's pressing himself harder against her thigh, taking a wild-charged breath. He covers her mouth with his hand, crams a gloved finger between her muzzled lips and traces her teeth. Rey lets him. Lets him hook his fingers into her cheek, scooping and stretching until she's drooling, leaking from the leather onto the floor.

“I can't wait to fuck this hole,” he whispers near her ear, like it's a big secret.

Suddenly, he withdraws completely. He's not touching her anywhere: just standing in front of her. His cock is out, but it's like he forgot about it.

“Take your hair down,” he orders. “And kneel.”

Unwrapping the knots, Rey keeps her face impassive. It's such an intimate thing, shaking her hair loose, that she's not even sure if her friends have seen her do this in all the months they've spent together. She drops the ties as she gets to her knees. The once-polished floor leaves smears of dust on her white pants.

“Look at me, scavenger.” She does, eyes rolling up to meet where his must be. The knight is savoring something, full of carnivorous anticipation. “He just found out we fuck you.”

And he backhands her across the face so hard that she reels. She's still, trying to breathe through the pain, blinking away the floating spots in her vision and the pinpricks of reflexive tears. It's so overwhelming that she can't remember what he said, like he erased the words and it's for the best. With her tongue, she wipes along her bottom lip where it feels like it's split, but there's no blood. Just a numbing sting. She's been hit before, of course, when she's fighting. This is different: she knows a test when she feels one. And perversely, it makes her nostalgic for a time in her life, not so long ago. Before the Force used her just as much as she used it.

Rey turns her head back, gaze straight ahead. Doesn't react.

“He found out and he sent me because he _really_ wants you to die now. Because I do what he tells me.”

Switching arms, the back of his hand catches her other cheek and she's gotten used to it already, because this one is harder, the sound of it ringing throughout the hollowed bridge tower. And none of it feels like anything compared to what he's saying.

“Don't you want me to stop?” He crouches down. Behind the mask, through the narrow slit of an opening, he's searching her face.

“Stop what?” She sounds bored and the change in him is incredible. And unnerving.

Standing and fumbling deliriously to get his cock into her mouth, he's stroking her hair. Her cheeks still burn, but she opens her mouth to let him glide between her tingling lips and over her tongue. He's panting, scraping the underside of his cock roughly on her teeth, cupping her chin so she bites him. Hurting him is what's right, and she's happy to add more pressure, denting his solidness. She feels the liquid throb of her own arousal settle heavy between her legs.

“You should kill him,” he says feverishly. Rey hides her shock. “You could be one of us. Kill him and take us.”

She seals her lips around him and sucks too hard; he plunges into it. It's just rambling—he's close to coming—but it's intriguing. If she cared about Kylo, she would warn him that his bodyguards are suggesting treason. But now she's thinking about the things she could make them do for her. To her. She could have them any time she wanted. They would _all_ be hers: well-fed, with long leashes. In her bed. At her feet. Between her legs.

He's taking himself out of her mouth and saying something about making her come, before he pulls her to her feet. Distracted as she's been, she doesn't notice how damp the crotch of her pants has gotten until he's touching her there, rolling her clit and tugging fast like it's a cock, and like all the things he's done that feel good, the strangeness is part of the pleasure.

He's jerking off with his other hand.

“I didn't mean what I said before,” he tells her like he's apologizing. “I won't kill you when you come.”

Rey knows her face is red from being hit, but she's ablaze with the orgasm that's building, too. For all of his revolting brutality—or maybe because of it—he can still make her body shake. The tensing is a deep ache where his club crashed into her.

“I don't believe you,” she says, biting off the words.

“I guess we'll find out soon.”

“I'm not going to come and you're never going to kill me.”

It's apparently exactly what he needs to hear because he groans once, long and guttural, shooting onto the floor between her legs in thick streams.

And after he straightens his clothes, he keeps moving his fingers against her, with a new and more dangerous concentration. She's done with him. For now, anyway.

“That's enough.” Rey sweeps her hand, and flings him hard against the wall with a deafening bang, his helmet bouncing. He slumps to the floor. Alive but quiet. She crosses the room to retrieve her things, and checks the safety on the blaster before clipping her belt. As she's tying her hair back up, Rey keeps an eye on him.

Watching her from the floor, he's either too injured or exhausted to get up. It's all the same to her.

“I never had one like you before.” He's dazed. “Want to kill me?” It's a genuine offer, like it would be his honor.

Rey turns away and continues on her training run.

* * *

“A word, Ushar.” Kylo keeps his tone level. He wants to scream.

Ushar nods as the others leave the _Steadfast_ 's enormous meeting room. Knights, admirals, generals, and their aides filter out. Hux lingers, always trying to find some crumbs of information. He's been paying an inordinate amount of attention to the absences of the knights, even going as far as asking about their current missions. Kylo turns to him, because all he needs is a fight. His mouth practically waters at the thought. Instead, he pulls himself up to his full height, back straight and chin lifted.

“General.”

Hux acts embarrassed, mumbling an apology like he didn't know exactly what he was doing.

Kylo waits until the door closes and the footsteps fade.

“You like killing people,” he begins. It's a struggle not to pace restlessly.

“Yes.”

“I sent you to kill someone.”

“Yes.”

Under his mask, Kylo closes his eyes.

“Why isn't she dead?”

“I was incapacitated.”

He's so exasperated, he doesn't care how much this is going to hurt.

“How?”

“The scavenger threw me against a wall.”

It's absurd to imagine. Rey, utterly alone, is ambushed by a grown man—a man who is Force-sensitive and, in all honesty, alarmingly sadistic. She throws him around with the Force and walks away. It's impossible. There has to be more.

“Did you touch her?”

“Yes.”

Kylo splays his fingers and taps them on the glossy black table in front of him. He's going to completely lose it later. Or maybe now.

“With your hand or a weapon?”

“Both.”

It stings.

“To hurt her or not?”

“Both.”

He can't breathe. Kylo forces himself to focus on asking the right questions. He presses his fingers harder onto the table, leather gloves creaking.

“Did you touch her without hurting her?”

Ushar tilts his head side to side noncommittally.

“I can't remember.”

Kylo feels that somewhere different. He knows that Rey is alive. That's all he asked. That's all he can sense.

“Did you hit her with your hand?”

“Couple times.”

He sends them to kill her, Kylo reminds himself. When it's Ushar, a backhand is pretty much guaranteed. He knows that. So why does he feel like he's going to be sick?

“Explain how you got close enough to hit her multiple times but failed to kill her.”

“I was incapacitated after I hit her.”

It's reasonable. She would do that, and it makes sense. Kylo should just let it go. But he can't leave well enough alone.

“Did you fuck her?” He's pleased by how disinterested he sounds. How distant.

“Her mouth.”

Now. Now will be when he loses it.

“You're dismissed.”

* * *

Ap'lek doesn't comment on the chair leg embedded in the wall by the door, and Kylo appreciates it.

“I need you to kill the scavenger.”

Ap'lek bows his head in acknowledgment.

“And if you aren't capable of doing that, you are forbidden from hurting her.”

He nods again.

“That's an order.”

* * *

VI.

Rey lifts her head from the pillow, listening.

It's late, the base quiet and sleeping, and she's alone in her room. The chorus of insects and animals that she's gotten accustomed to has stopped. Her ears ring as she strains to identify whatever woke her up, her skin sweaty with the abrupt tension. When she has the privacy, like the past week, she allows herself the indulgence of sleeping naked, to have nights when she doesn't feel caught by the snagging of clothes as she flips over between the sheets. Rey slings her leg out from under the beige, standard-issue blankets to cool off as she listens.

That's when she sees it.

An ominous figure standing in the far corner of her room; a skeletal mask and a flowing, hooded cloak. For a moment, she blames the paralyzing, chilling bolt of fear on him projecting it. But he doesn't need to. It's natural. Recoiling, she backs away from the edge of her bed. He's motionless, and Rey doesn't trust that at all after last time. Now she knows how they can fight. And somehow, as she slept, he got onto the base and into her room without setting off any alarms, his Force signature dampened enough to not wake her. He could have been there for hours, she realizes, and it's the most terrifying thing any of them have done yet.

Scrambling out of bed, Rey keeps a blanket gathered around her. It drags on the floor, and even though the room is a comfortable temperature, she's shaking as she wraps it tighter around her. Her lightsaber rests on a cluttered workbench midway between them and she takes a cautious step towards it. The blaster is in pieces next to it, taken apart for cleaning before she fell asleep. _Stupid._ The knight is just a disciplined watchfulness.

“How did you get in?”

No response. She's not sure what she expected. But she senses it now—his appetite, whetted from watching her sleep, but leashed by restraint. As frightening as he is, there's a kind of shyness to him. If he's carrying any weapons, she can't see them. They might be sheathed on his belt or under his cloak, but he looks unarmed: just cloth and leather and the metal of his helmet. No other armor. He's not there for a fight at all.

So instead of taking her lightsaber, Rey loosens her hold on the blanket, enough to let it slide down her shoulder. Her initial fear shifts to arousal as she imagines doing things to lure him out of the corner to touch her like he wants to.

The blanket slips more, exposing her upper body. None of them have seen that part of her before, and she wonders if he knows that he's the first. Under the blanket, she's touching herself, and she could tell him anything right now in the hushed room. He wouldn't mind if she confessed that none of this is enough. Not really. And she knows why: it's not what they do. It's who they are. Who they're not, even though they're close.

She wants this one to take his mask off, to show her it's not him.

It's useless to ask. And Rey doesn't bother, even without using the Force to check—he's not the right height, his posture isn't the same. So she turns around instead, and lets the blanket fall away, keeping it clutched in the hand that she braces against the worn edge of the workbench. She craves something different from this knight, with his eerie quietness and his patience and the way he's been wanting her from the other side of her room.

As she bends over, she soaks her finger in her mouth, thickly coats it with spit. She spreads herself so he can see when she circles her entrance. She pushes in, such a wickedly slight dipping that it's already making him move closer, noiselessly, so he won't miss it. The smallest spark is all he needed.

Rey is surprised none of the knights have tried this part of her yet. It's a bit taboo on many planets, but so is everything else she does together with them. And she likes it—the extra awareness it requires, the close-but-not-quite wrongness. Even knowing that some consider it unclean and depraved only adds intensity, just makes her enjoy it more. There's an unsnapping of a pouch's closure on his belt and before she has time to worry, she feels a cold drizzle of something perfectly slippery running down to collect where she's working her finger in. There's no hindrance now, just the quiet sounds of her wet muscles squeezing her finger.

The salaciousness of being helped and then watched, of knowing that he's entranced, makes her go faster, and under more spilling, she's easing in another finger.

He's touching her now, brushing his leather-covered fingers up her back. The contact is too needed, too satisfying, too loudly broadcast through the Force long before he does it, to make her jump. A shiver runs through the space around them. Encircling her upper arm with his hand, he wants more, and after she easily slips her fingers out of herself, she follows him over to the middle of the room. It feels like she's floating across the darkened bedroom, lit only by the night sky and the moonlight streaming in through her locked window, and the steadily blinking lights of a wall-mounted control panel. And he's getting down onto the clean floor, wordlessly urging her to join him with sweeping strokes of her legs. It's mortifying, but she closes her eyes—just for a moment, a split second of weakness—and imagines it's Kylo. Because, inexplicably, this reminds her of the parts of him she barely got to see.

And then Rey is folding herself up and dropping the thick blanket onto the floor to lie on. This is not where she expected this to go—she thought he would take her standing, that he would leave on the gloves he's removing. But the entire encounter so far has been surreal. After stretching his legs out long, he strokes her arm while she positions herself beside him. Her bed would be too narrow for what they're doing, and she wonders how long he's been planning this. Facing away from him, her legs are bent comfortably, and she lets her mind wander dreamily as he moves his clothes out of the way. Whatever he does, it's more than just what's necessary to get his cock out because his thighs and abdomen are bare against her, too. He gets nearer to her, his skin warm on hers, his body hard and lean from years of fighting. This covert risk of closeness is dangerous in a way that's difficult to name, like he's a cliff and she's not sure how long she can hold on, or if she even wants to. If maybe it would be best to let go and fall into him. She can always climb back out. He's faceless, after all. Nameless.

Rey arches her back and circles her hips slowly until the head of his cock is seated against her. There must be more of that slick something on his cock because she barely has to open herself to him and he's just a tiny bit in her. She exhales, trembling, and he doesn't stop touching her—playing with her hair, letting the wispy tendrils drift over her skin as he gathers it all into one hand, before delicately lifting it off of her neck. On her throat, he rests his fingers softly to feel where she's breathing and swallowing, then moves his hand to carefully press the pads of his fingers until he finds her pulse. He's not being rough—just feeling her like he's fascinated—but her heart is racing anyway and she wonders if maybe she's the cliff for him, too. Rocking his hips, he gives the smallest thrust, and she takes him more than that, reaching behind her to drape her arm over his body. The oiled cloth of his cloak is textured, a sound-dampening weave, and she holds on to it, dragging him closer. It's with the hand she used to touch herself before, still wet, but he doesn't stop her. Maybe he likes it.

He is totally silent. No words, no groaning—she can't even hear his breathing. As her muscles relax and stretch, he lets her push onto him in increments. The whole time, he touches her like she's priceless—not the statue she was to the last knight, but the entire museum that he's crept into after it's closed, exploring with the lights off. He's tracing the outer edge of her ear, then trailing three fingers down the length of her spine as she moves. In the starlit room, he cups her breasts, holding the swell of them before he moves on to stroke her stomach. Dipping down farther, he swirls his fingers in the short hair between her legs.

Rey moans at that, and he delves carefully with his cock. She's ready for it, bearing down, and it feels incredible. His touch continues, so soft it almost tickles.

“Please,” she begs, not sure what she's asking for because she likes everything that's happening. Against her back, she can feel his broad chest, and even through bunched-up layers of black fabric, the muscles are solid. Her grinding movements draw him in deeper and he's thrusting more, always controlled. With so little friction, she can only feel the gliding and the fullness. The density of him and the easing of her. Rey has one arm folded under her head, and he nudges until she uncurls her elbow, and he slides his arm to replace hers. He intertwines their fingers, their arms stretching out together, and she's staring at the oddness of it, where their hands interlace. Even in the dark, she can make out the white lines of scars on his hand; she traces one. It's like she needed all of this and didn't know how to ask. It doesn't even feel like fucking, and although his helmet is unyielding when she curls into him more, she can absolutely pretend that this is Ben.

He wraps his leg around one of hers, and drags it back. It lets him reach down between her legs again, with better access, to tease her more. The lightest tap on her clit, so faint it feels like an accident, but it's electric in her body. She tightens around his cock, and he stops thrusting until she relaxes. A few pumps and another brush and a pause.

“Please.” This time, she knows what she's asking for, and he starts to give it to her. Always with that patience. The caressing going for longer, then more firm—a swipe of his fingers, then a pressing. As she shakes, she can feel how hard she's clamping around him. There are no rests in the way he touches her, and he's not moving his cock at all now—just letting it be what she grips.

As the orgasm shatters over her, she takes huge, open-mouthed breaths, her hand squeezing his, and she knows she's moaning softly too. Her hips move, caught between his fingers and his cock. It feels like it goes on forever, finally dwindling to a glow.

He's tucking his knees behind hers, stroking her arm, then kneading her shoulder and up her neck to work out the training-hardened tension. And as carefully as he pushed in, he begins to withdraw. Whenever there's a leftover clenching from her orgasm, he stops, and just massages her back or her hip. When he's halfway out, midway through running his hand along her side as she tightens, he stills. His fingers dig in and his body stiffens behind her, his cock pulsing inside of her. No sound at all. Rey lazily rubs her thumb over his knuckles and for a few moments, they stay like that, her eyes drifting closed. It's a borrowed intimacy, the scraps of something bigger, but the contentment is real. The way they're wrapped around each other is blissful, with him still in her, and he's heavy-limbed and relaxed.

Eventually, with a delicious sigh that she'll remember, he pulls out of her. After disentangling, he gives her back a final, sweeping touch before he gets to his feet. The shuffle of leather, the rattling of his belts. She knows not to turn around because then she has to stop pretending that Ben is just going into the refresher to rinse off and get a glass of water but he'll be back to fall asleep next to her.

The knight's boots are soft-soled and worn as he walks over to her bed and takes a pillow and another blanket.

She's fighting back tears when he returns and eases the pillow beneath her head. And when he drapes the blanket over her and folds the bottom edge around her feet, Rey loses the fight completely, hot tears gliding down her cheeks and soaking into the pillow. Because she has only the foggiest memory of ever being tucked in until now.

“Did I hurt you?” The first time she hears his voice, and he sounds younger than the others. And nothing like Ben.

“No.” It's probably a waste of time and she doubts he can pick up on her thoughts, but she sends them over to him just in case: that every single thing he did felt good. That she's sad anyway and it's not his fault. That she wouldn't mind if he came back again.

He gives her foot a quick squeeze.

She doesn't look around because an empty room is too much right now. Covering her mouth so she won't wake up the people sleeping in neighboring bunkrooms, she sobs.

* * *

Ending I

“And?”

“I failed in one of my tasks.”

It's just the two of them in Kylo's quarters. The beveled white walls feel like they're closing in.

“Which one?”

“She's alive.”

He hates the relief he feels. And the envy. It was easier when they hurt her—then he can just feel guilty.

Al'pek hesitates.

“I think you should go to her,” he says.

* * *

Voices muffled by the wall, the conversation a confusing jumble, and Kylo can't keep it straight. But he's listening anyway.

“Did she cry? I made her cry.” Ushar. That's hard to miss. Also a lie, knowing him.

“A little, but she liked it. Got her to come twice.” Kylo clenches his teeth so hard, he can feel it in his skull. “Is she so fucking tight or what? Still think about it.” He should walk away, but it's like they bolted his feet in place.

“I can't believe that fucker sent me first. I'm the only one that didn't get to come.”

“Volunteer to go next.”

A chorus of objections.

“I thought I would break her, but she's tough.” Definitely Ushar. Kylo has noticed that he's still keeping his left arm immobile during training sessions, but tries to hide it. It gives him a twisted sense of pride.

“Yeah she gives as good as she gets. Couldn't walk right for days.”

“That's because your dick is so crooked, you could come on your own back.”

They roar with laughter. When it dies down, there's a pause.

“How come you're not saying anything?” The thumping sound of someone being punched encouragingly, without much strength behind it.

“Yeah, what the fuck, Ap'lek. You can't just stand in the corner listening.”

“Yes I can,” he says.

“You fall in love with her or what?”

It feels like there's a weight on Kylo's chest, crushing and smothering.

“What did I tell you about kissing the meat?”

“I didn't kiss her,” Ap'lek says before his voice drops, too quiet for Kylo to make out the words. He leans closer because, more than anything else, he wants to hear this: what happens when they don't hurt her.

A low whistle. Murmurs of approval.

And _that_ makes him livid.

“Who's up next? We need a fresh report.”

Kylo storms in.

“Patrol. Now. Sector seven.”

They scatter.

* * *

Kylo pulls off his helmet. Watches her.

“You've become a problem,” he says simply.

Like she wasn't one before. Rey glares back at him. They're in a deserted shrine, empty except for benches pushed askew years ago and tattered curtains sagging from the soaring ceiling. A sunlit breeze drifts through the gaps where windows once were, bringing the scent of the surrounding forest close. It hurts to look at him but she does it anyway, because it also feels good and she can't stop.

“They don't listen to you.”

“No, because you keep—” He stops himself.

“What do I keep doing?” Rey asks. She wants to hear him say it. That she fucks them and sends them back to their master, spent and full of excuses. Uses them to taunt him. And really, she just needs to hear his voice. It's been months and he sounds like velvet: fuzzed and warmly rich after a string of vocoder-distorted men.

Kylo's hands fist at his sides.

“You have no idea how hard they are to keep in line.”

A slow smile spreads across Rey's face. She has an inkling.

“No. Stop.”

“I know they are,” she says. “But I want what they do and they feel good. When they give up on trying to kill me.”

He looks disgusted, like he wants to hate her. But then something else is there, too, and it opens him, just for a flash, before it's gone.

“One told me I should kill you and join them,” she adds, still a little smug from the proposition, ready to enjoy the betrayal play across Kylo's face. For him to grimly ask which one it was, which one he has to watch out for, so she can reply that they're mostly all the same to her.

Instead, it's as close to flattered as she's ever seen him. His eyes widen, and there's almost a hint of a blush. Oddly, he doesn't seem angry at all.

Maybe he misheard her.

“That you should kill me to join?” Kylo repeats it back to her quietly, like he can't believe it, but for none of the reasons she anticipated. She's not even going to try to understand what's going on.

“Yes.”

It's like he's about to say something else, before thinking better of it. He clears his throat and presses his lips together. Buying time to collect his thoughts, he studies the way his glove moves with his hand, clutching and releasing.

“You've undermined my authority,” he says eventually, changing his approach.

Rey scowls. Why would she care?

“ _You_ keep sending them. Even after you knew what was happening.”

“I thought at least one would do their job.” Voice raised.

“They tried,” Rey says. “You like it.”

A twitch of a snarl from him, seething.

“I hate it.”

“If you hated it, you'd come and do it yourself.”

Kylo gestures to their surroundings. “I'm here. I hate it.”

“You ran out of knights,” says Rey. “That's the only reason. I'd like to request number three and six again. Next time. Maybe together, if they wouldn't mind.”

Instead of responding to that, Kylo looks up at the lofted, arched ceiling until he can settle into a professional detachment. Like he's troubleshooting a problem in an otherwise-functional system—like she's a blip in a shield or an unidentified whining sound in an ion engine.

“So how do you do it?” he asks finally, eyes falling back to her.

“Pretty well, apparently.” Rey flicks the edge of a faded curtain hanging next to her, sending a puff of dust flying into the afternoon light.

Kylo ignores that, too. Just waits.

“They attack,” Rey starts. “But they're not usually trying very hard.”

Kylo runs his hand over his mouth in frustration. “I knew it.”

“Or at least, I hope they're not trying.” She taunting him and that's the next step, the critical one, but he doesn't even know it: the tease and the snag.

His eyes flash.

“And I block them,” Rey continues. “But I think word traveled fast. One was a talker.”

“Vicrul. Never shuts up.”

“That's a ridiculous name,” she says. Kylo shrugs. “He said he was going to tell you what I felt like.”

It's not a flash of a snarl this time. It stays.

“But I think he was just trying to make me come.” Rey says it before she really thinks through the implications—of why that would get her off. Maybe it's because he's standing in front of her, but she understands her vindictiveness and hunger now, too late. That she wants him to know, to think about her in explicit, stolen detail because that might be as close as they ever get to what she has wanted from the moment she first saw him.

His expression changes. A pause.

“Did he?” The question is full of yearning and she can't tell what he wants to hear: that somebody else couldn't give her an orgasm or that she was thinking about him when she had one. But, right now, she wants to hurt him. This person she once thought she knew, before he sent waves of people to kill her so he wouldn't have to get his own hands dirty. Couldn't even afford her the dignity of doing it himself.

“Yes. But I don't think it was from that. He was fucking me too.”

Kylo's jaw is working, some of it anger and some not knowing what to say. Finally, he collects himself, refocusing.

“So you block them and they just start fucking you? How does that work, Rey?”

“Like this.” She walks over to him and it already feels different. Eyes flicking over her, and he's studying her face as she gets close. Rey unbuckles the strap around her thigh, but leaves the belt hanging from her hips, weapons close.

“They make you disarm?” He's relieved that something makes sense.

“Only one did.” Rey turns around slowly, starts to roll down the waistband of her pants before she bends over. They can't disarm her, anyway. He knows that. The knights all know that. The one that hit her _definitely_ knows that.

Maybe it's because she's explaining it to him, and he's being quiet and not grabbing her, but she feels so aware of her body. She's viciously turned on, like it's in her blood and coursing through her. The pants are just starting to round the curve of her ass; she's taking her time and he doesn't stop her. The emotions from him are tangled: disdain, sadness, jealousy. And over it all, a barely held-back ocean of need.

“For all of them?”

“A few.”

Her pants are bunched around her knees. He draws a long inhale through his teeth as she spreads herself, and she can't bring herself to look back at him. To make it real.

“I heard them talking about you, too,” he tells her. Something's rattling, the shifting of fabric and it brushes across the exposed backs of her legs.

“What did they say?”

“That you're tight and they made you cry.” He probably loved that. His skin meets hers, and the heart-pounding anticipation is going to ruin her. There's a pressing that reminds her of outstretched fingertips next to a fire. “That you can take it.”

She can't believe it's happening and she half expects him to ignite his lightsaber instead. But he's pushing in. The sound she makes is overwhelmed and shocked, and he's repositioning himself so he can thrust up into her, his legs bent and flexing behind hers. She wills herself to breathe through the astonishment of him— _him—_ inside of her. If she doesn't think about it, she can pretend he's just the seventh one. Just another knight failing to follow orders. But then—

“Rey.” It's a shuddering sigh.

His cock isn't the biggest of theirs, but it's close. He's stretching her and not caring, reckless and urgent. The way he fits is an almost-too-much euphoria and Rey wants to live around him. He hooks his fingers through her belt to draw her back onto him, then tips her down so he can watch while he slides out, coated. Long strokes that use the length of him to sink in.

“Harder?”

She lets her head hang down; nods. The roughness of disinterest isn't the same, though. This already isn't a straightforward fuck, and he's anything but indifferent. Kylo's “harder” will be unsparing. It must be.

Wetly, he pulls out of her to walk her over to a wide bench nearby, hands on her waist to guide her. Then he unbuckles her belt, and practically tears it off of her. It drops to the floor. Her body misses his, even in this tiny break, needing to collide with him again, more than ready for whatever he does. Crouching to drag her pants down all the way, his breath is searing against her hip while she kicks off her boots to free her legs. It's fast, when he tastes her bare skin, done as he's standing—his tongue leaving a broad streak up the outer arc of her thigh. His teeth close, just for a second, around a mouthful of her skin, like he wants to devour her but will settle for this. It's not where she needs it, but his lips were on her and she's bending over again, only wants his cock more. When he plunges into her, it's so much rougher than before. It slams through her, jostling everything, and Rey has to brace herself against the padded bench, arms working to keep her up. It's the onslaught she imagined and every moment of it feels like a reward. She doesn't have to ask for more. He presses on her lower stomach with his whole hand, and spreads his fingers, covering her, feeling how his cock shifts the inside of her body.

Kylo fucks her like he's claiming her. Overwriting their touches. Rey feels it: that he wanted to be there first, but now it's too late. And in the most raw and terrible way, he needs to fuck where they were. Needs to find the dirtiness of them and add himself to it.

He grabs a fistful of her hair, steers her head so he can see the side of her face when he asks.

“Did you like it?” His thrusting doesn't falter, but the venom in his voice floods her. “Having that many?”

She did. It helped, for a bit.

“Yes.”

He makes a desperate sound, sheared-off, like he's fighting back an orgasm. As soon as it's controlled, he keeps going. Keeps asking.

“Did you let them come in you?”

“Look and you'll see,” she tells him. If he wants to know, he should just watch.

He's in her head. Rey feels him find the memories, clustered together and shot through with a feral greed. The way she'd needed them where he wasn't. That there weren't enough of them to make up for it. How she'd wanted them deeper than they could ever go, and wished they were him, even while they fucked her fast with their fingers and spilled inside of her. That when she touches herself alone, she'll start off thinking about one of them because it's safer, but it's always him at the end.

He's gasping with it when he slides out, on the brink again. The thought of him letting go in her makes her contract around the emptiness where he was. For the only time since they started, she wants to beg—not for more, but for him to stay.

He flips her over, the old cushion on the bench still plush enough to stop the worn surface below from biting into her back and shoulders. When he pushes in again, the return drags a rumbling, slaked sound from him, and Rey has never heard anything better. Their eyes lock and he smooths her hair back where it's sticking to her face. She's staring at him, and it's a strange time to do it, but she's transfixed, like he just took his helmet off for the first time. Whatever pretending she could do before is long gone, because it's so completely him and his body is over hers and she could fade away. It's too filling to be a dream, too noisy, and he's bathing in her where they meet. The new angle shifts him, and he's grinding against something in her, her legs wrapped around him. It builds faster than she expects, his eyes never leaving hers. Her whole body constricts.

“Ben, I'm—”

He exhales at the sound of his name, fucks her harder. She can't speak.

“Tell me.”

She can't. Beneath him, her mouth opens uselessly. He's melting too, watching her as he slips, and she can feel it through the bond.

“You're coming?” He asks like it's all he wants and when she nods, he's there too as it crashes through her, his head dropping to her neck, muffled groans, and burying his cock deep to release. She latches onto him every way she can, arms wrapping and legs crushing until she's spent and out of breath.

It's stunning, when she realizes what they've done. How much safer it is to be with people wearing masks. People who aren't him. Because when he recovers enough to lift his head and stare at her mouth, the enormity of what just happened makes her feel like she can't swallow.

“Just me, Rey.” He doesn't know how else to tell her. The jealousy is gone; there's only something gentle that craves her endlessly. And maybe he doesn't remember what that's called. But she does. And she knows she'll hear it from him soon enough.

“Why?”

“Because I—”

He's trying, the word caught somewhere between the depths of him and his tongue. And it's okay. Because, for Ben, she is patient.

But Rey wants to breathe the thing he can't say yet, to inhale it and hold it in the bottom of her lungs. Her hand is on the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. A mouth on hers, at last, hot waves that part their lips and slide their tongues. He drops into it, his weight on her, their breath mixing. She can taste the unnamable substance of him and knows he's tasting hers, and nothing will be the same after that.

He breaks the kiss, searching her face.

“I don't know what to do.” His voice is lost and Rey smiles at him.

It might take him a while, but he'll get there.

“Yes you do, Ben.”

* * *

He doesn't send the knights after that— just gets to her himself. For hours, he uses his body to show her and she uses hers to tell him: that they are marked for each other in a way they don't understand. That they are the other's path.

And finally, one day not long after, she can see it on his face when Ben finds her. The unburdened rush is clean, the way he touches her a retrieval.

And he never goes back to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has two different endings.
> 
> Ending I: Original.  
> Ending II: Alternate. [Wanted Deadly Things.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263956) Dark!Rey, angst with a happy ending. Mind the tags.


End file.
